Wish on Sirius
by Three People Trying To Write
Summary: One summer night after Order of the Phoenix, who should show up at number four to see Harry, but...Neville?


an: I've re-uploaded this chapter, with some minor details added. My beta said Neville seemed OOC, and I tried to fix that a bit…he's supposed to be somewhat grown up, though, not the terrified little klutz he was in the early books.

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            On that summer evening, Privet Drive was silent as usual. Its inhabitants went about their nighttime routines normally, completely oblivious to the dark figure making its way down their street. Children went to bed, crickets sang, adults turned on their televisions to the news as the last bit of orange sunset faded into the west, like paint washing from a palette. Stars and streetlights flickered on simultaneously. 

            Number four was nearly identical to its neighbors two and six, just as Privet Drive was nearly identical to Magnolia Road. I say 'nearly' because there were differences, even to the naked eye. For example, if one watched number four for long enough, one might realize that there were no little mice, shrews or similar scurrying about the painstakingly-kept garden. Even Mrs.'s number two and number six had the occasional unpleasant discovery of one of their daylily bulbs, uprooted and half-eaten. That never happened in the summer to Mrs. Petunia Durlsey of number four, though if she noticed, she would be more likely to chock it up to her own gardening skills rather than thank the snowy owl who patrolled the garden at night. No, number four was different, like Magnolia Road from Privet Drive, like Little Whinging from the rest of Surrey. It was all due to a series of events, most recently the return of a Mr. Harry Potter to the Dursleys' keep. A series of events which was by no means near its end.

            The dark figure who walked cautiously along the pavement, who peered in the windows of the houses he passed, who we know as Neville Longbottom, was extremely nervous. Perhaps it would have made him feel better to know that he now trod the same path as Albus Dumbledore had some fifteen years ago. Nevertheless, he was unaware. His right hand grasped his wand so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was alone on a strange street, wearing strange clothes, almost entirely enveloped in a world that was not his own. It was most disconcerting. You try it some time, and see if I lie. 

            Night fell rapidly. In a matter of minutes, Neville had a difficult time discerning the brass numbers on the doorways. He continued his stealthy way, wishing he could use his wand for light, until he found number four. The house seemed to feel both more standoffish and more welcoming than those around it, if that was possible. Stowing his wand in his belt like a sword, he ascended the portico and swung the shiny knocker.

            As a large, lumbering shape made its way to the door, Neville trembled slightly and tried to remember what he was about to do. Introduce himself, for starters. But don't mention anything about Hogwarts. . .oh, the stories he'd heard about Harry's family! Of course, he wasn't screaming over the telephone, but still. . .was he dressed Muggle-y enough? What if they wouldn't let him see Harry? What if they sent him away? _I'll just carry on, then, _Neville thought. _I'm going to see this through. . .with or without help._

            The door opened to reveal a great hulk of a man with an even greater mustache. Neville felt the humid air stick in his throat. The man glanced him up and down, then began to glare.

            "What do you want?" demanded Vernon Dursley.

            Neville swallowed hard. "I'm Neville Longbottom." 

            Mr. Dursley raised his eyebrow, and it occurred to Neville that that hadn't exactly answered his question. "Um, I'd like to see Harry, please," the boy added hastily.

            "Rather late to come calling, isn't it?" said Mr. Dursley. He leaned his head out the door and squinted into the shadows, as though expecting to find accomplices. 

            "It's important, sir," said Neville just as an unpleasantly high voice called from within the house, "Vernon? Who's at the door?"

            Mr. Dursley sized Neville up once more, then turned to answer his wife. "Some ruddy friend of Harry's, he says."

            There was a sound of breaking glass. Neville now fully expected to be asked to leave, but on the contrary, Mr. Dursley opened the door and bid him come in.

            The spotlessness of the living room was the first thing this boy, who had grown up in the wizarding world, noticed. The widescreen television was on. A massive boy who looked to be about the same age as Neville sat in front of it, fiddling with some buttons attached to a wire. A skinny woman was sweeping something in the kitchen, presumably the broken glass. All over the mantle and the walls were pictures---the Muggle sort, with everyone frozen in time, smiles (or in some cases, looks of great dislike) stuck to their faces permanently. Neville's eyes lingered on these, and he suppressed a shudder. Mr. Dursley pointed to an overly-stuffed couch. 

            "Sit." Neville did.

            Mr. Dursley cleared his throat. "Go get your cousin, Dudley."

            The boy didn't look up from the television screen. He did, however, raise his eyebrows. "Dad? Busy?" 

            "Now."

            "Do it yourself."

            Neville watched the muscles work in the older man's jaw. "Get Harry _now_, Dudley."

            The change in his tone of voice had a noticeable effect on Dudley Dursley. Begrudgingly he stood up and threw down his buttons, but not before pausing his game, so that the television now resembled the Muggle photos (except featuring people in camouflage instead of coordinated beachwear). 

            Neville examined the carpet while they waited for Harry to come. It was the only thing he could find to look at that didn't look back at him, especially as Mr. Dursley was still watching him through narrow, beady eyes, as though he might suddenly try and set the house on fire. 

            "Go to that---that school---with him, do you," said Mr. Dursley through closed teeth. It was more like a statement than a question.

            "What if I do," replied Neville calmly. He was surprised, even proud of himself, for not sounding as frightened as he was.

            "Oh, I know what your kind are like. It's bad enough I've got to live with one of them. I'll not have you come by again, is that understood? And, in fact, tell all Harry's other little friends the same thing. Next thing you know there'll be lots of you dropping by for tea, and when that happens, so help me I'll---"

            But Neville never got to find out what Mr. Dursley would do, because at that moment Harry Potter entered the living room. He wore, as well as clothes that were far too big for him, a look of surprise that Neville had expected. Dudley realized where he was not wanted and scooted past to the kitchen. Mr. Dursley reluctantly fell silent.

            "Hiya, Harry," said Neville, a forced attempt at lightheartedness.

            "Hi, Neville." Harry looked awkwardly at his uncle, then back to his friend. "Er, what brings you by this. . .now?"

            Neville bit his lip, then shrugged. "I need to talk to you, if possible." He tilted his head in Mr. Dursley's direction. 

            "Come up to my room," Harry suggested, with a tone that dared his uncle to disagree. Mr. Dursley seemed as fascinated by the carpet as Neville had been moments before.

            The boys took the stairs two at a time in their haste to get away from the Muggles. Once safely in the mess of Harry's room, they shut the door.

            "Sorry, didn't know I'd be having company," apologized Harry as Neville brushed some socks off the desk chair.

            "It's okay," Neville said genuinely. He sat down on the chair and smiled at Harry, who smiled back and reclined on his bed.

            "Lucky you came this summer. . .last year my uncle would have probably tried to have you arrested for trespassing just for knocking on the door."

            Neville gave a halfhearted chuckle. "They're not so bad, are they?"

            "Not anymore," shrugged Harry. "I don't want to be around them, they don't want to be around me. . .I think we've reached some kind of deal."

            "That's good," said Neville.

            There was a long pause. Trying to collect his thoughts, which had taken record time to get scattered about his head, Neville coughed. 

            "Look, I'm sorry to surprise you like this---"

            "Quite alright---"

            "But. . ." The boy took a deep breath. He looked at his friend, his eyes frightened and pleading. "Harry, I need your help."

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